


Silent Symphonies

by Twilight_Shadow129



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Elderbug needs a break, Gen, Get these bugs some therapy, Ghost is baby, Good Sister Hornet, Guilt and Denial, Kinda, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quirrel has Questions, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Teacher Quirrel, The Knight can hear the Background Music, The Knight hears music, Unreliable Narrator, but no one else can, vessels aren't empty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29856867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilight_Shadow129/pseuds/Twilight_Shadow129
Summary: The kingdom of Hallownest was once one of great renown. Many would flock to the Pale Light and its gifts freely given. Once it was a land of prosperity and riches, a budding civilization on the cusp of the world.Now it is nothing but a dead shell of broken dreams and fading lights. A beacon for damned souls and grave robbers.Some are lured into its heart by promises of riches and fame.Some are drawn by dreams of boiling acid and memories forgotten.Some are called by scarlet flames and voiceless screams.And one is pulled not by pale threads … … …but a song.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Silent Symphonies

* * *

The Wastes were silent.

A world devoid of sound — apart from the howling winds that blow across the earth. 

A world devoid of life — save for the corpses and shells tucked into the rocks and sediment. 

A world devoid of thought — as for what creature could survive such emptiness. 

  
  


The Wastes were truly a land of nothingness. 

  
  


So it is only fitting that a wanderer who embodied all of these characteristics could stand against the unrelenting winds. That they could survive in the empty void of the wasteland that claimed the minds and lives of many. One which was neither bug nor plant, but a creature of known but forgotten existence. 

And so they walked the dusty, dry earth with seemingly no clear direction. Ambling at a steady pace with no rhyme or reason, driven forward by a force one would deem unnatural. It had no mind to think, no will to drive it, not even a voice it could call it’s own.

If a being capable of thought were to chance upon it, what would they think?

Would they feel sorrow and pity for such a lonely thing as it walked? Maybe they would treat it as a threat, once glancing the ruined nail on its back? Perhaps instead, they would see the small thing as potential prey from its size and tattered cloak? Or, more realistically, would they simply ignore it — resigning it to a fate of forgettability and expected death.

Regardless, the fictional being would no doubt feel some semblance of emotion — even if only in passing. Something the small, pale thing could not know and never experience.

  
  


A poor creature it was, truly. 

  
  


A poor creature it is, to wander these wastes; to march to its eventual death. Time passed around and past it, uncaring as the wasteland itself. Days and nights nothing but a fleeting concept to the creature, lingering yet never stable enough to be realized. To it, time was as non-existent as itself.

  
  


To be alive, yet not. A cruel existence to be sure.

  
  


At times, it would respond and act to the world around it as if it were alive. Jumping and darting around at the smallest hint of movement. Staring and moving towards mirages of light that disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Swinging it’s nail at any slight noise that went against the constant ambient sounds of the wasteland — despite it most likely being a rock simply being jostled around.

There would be those who would argue that this behavior was indicative of life; however thoughtless it appeared. Though to most, it was simply easier to accept that these were simply the result of base instinct. The only thing to remain when all else that could’ve filled the creature's shell was long since stripped away. 

And if something did manage to seed in the creature's " _ mind _ ," well, the wastelands would’ve surely stripped that away by this point. 

Not that it could care anyway; being empty as it is. 

  
  


Though one "day," things started to change for the pitiful creature. 

  
  


As usual, it shambled about like a living corpse, dutifully marching toward an end, not in sight. When it tripped — on nothing but air — and laid there as dust started to coat its pale shell. But instead of getting up and continuing like it should, it simply stayed there amongst the dirt and rocks. And, in an act that most certainly should have been a trick of the light, it trembled where it fell. 

Frozen and shaking in place as if all the howling gales of the wastes were directed solely upon the pale creature. Something rattling the thing to it's shell and core.

Slowly it would get up — shakily and with less grace than a newborn — but from its spot, it did not move for a long time. Long enough for sand to pile at its feet, partially burying it. In this time, it simply stared ahead at nothing; staring out across the wastes.

Eventually, it moved. 

Most peculiarly, it turned and moved. 

In all of this creature's wandering of the wastelands, it never strayed from its course. Straight ahead and never faltering — even when the winds would be strong enough to knock it around, it would simply keep going forward wherever it happened to face. 

For it to turn and change direction, however slight a detour it might be, was simply foreign. Truly a less than sane being would jump to assumptions that it was a choice made consciously of the creature, but we all know that is simply untrue. 

It was a curious change though. 

It’s pace never changed, as slow and as plodding as before. It’s behavior on the other hand seemed to shift to something almost new. It no longer jumped and slashed at the smallest sounds and movements. No more did it chase after illusions of lights and animated shells. When the wind picked up, it pushed back against the current; never daring to stray from its newly designated path. 

Alongside this change, a new behavior formed.

It started sporadically, at first, the creature would pause for a moment before carrying on as if nothing changed. This soon evolved into darting, a short burst of speed carrying it forward to an abrupt halt. These occurrences would seem to happen at random, lasting never more than a few seconds before the creature carried on its way. 

This strange change was odd, to say the least, it’s happening with little to no rhyme or reason to it. But did it the pale creature did, it’s little legs trudging against the wind. 

Over the nonexistent time passed, this strange routine would steadily occur more often. At times, ferociously enough to send the creature tumbling into the dirt, down steep slopes, or into rocky craters. But no matter what the wastes throw at it, it never stops nor strays. 

No rest for it's small body. No care for the uncaring world around it. No reason for it’s steadfast march against the gales. 

It’s a wonder truly, at the thing's resilience — at its drive, the steadiness to its steps. Whatever crazed being brought forth this creature should be impressed at how seemingly indestructible it is; at the faux determination that fuels its small body. 

Oh, what one would have given, to peer into the pale thing's " _ mind _ " and see what drives it. What commands it. What pulls it on this path, pulling it through the dead of the wastelands.

Is it pale threads, frayed wisps of power that is barely there, lingering?

Is it thorny roots that twist and gnarl, glowing white and choking all within its grasp, never letting go?

  
  


Or is it something older, something stronger, something colder and unyielding than the endless night above it.

  
  


Whatever draws it forward — whatever "thoughts" laid within the creature’s empty head — it mattered not. For after a partially dreadful tumble and fall, a height that surely would’ve cracked the shell of a lesser being, something appeared in the distance; the creature pausing at its sight. 

It was a light, flickering yet not wavering, its glow barely visible in the dusty air. It hung suspended in the wind, never swaying and stationary; not like the mirages of before. The light simply stayed, drawing like a moth to a flame in the depths of darkness. 

The creature stood rooted to the spot, staring straight ahead at what most certainly should’ve been a trick by a cruel god. But alas, as it walked up to the anomaly — at a much slower pace mind you — the orb of pale blue never blew out. The thing walked until it had to crane it's head up to stare at...

A lamp.

A simple, black iron pole that stuck out from the ruined cobble ground, curling and twisting like a snail's shell at its apex. Hanging from it was a bulb buzzing with a pale, bluish light. Despite barely illuminating the world around it, to Wastes the plain lamppost was a beacon to all that wandered. 

And a solitary beacon it was not — for in the distance more of these lights could be seen, a solid trail in the fleeting winds. 

For a time the pale thing stared blankly at the light when suddenly it snapped its head down the trail. Something caught it’s attention, but what? It would linger under the post, before continuing its travel. It’s little feet almost soundless against the broken stone and weathered rock. 

A strange thing for a path to be here in the Wastes; however ruined it may be. A strange, anomalous thing indeed. There is nothing in these lands after all; just empty things, dead things, forgotten things.

Suppose it is a perfect place for the wanderer to roam, lost and with no direction like a scrap of fabric in the wind; being so alike.

But this wanderer no longer wanders, does it? No longer is it lost. No longer does it allow the wind to take it wherever it wishes with its hollow shell. No longer does the creature list to the demands of the terrain around it, instead it moves against. No longer does it travel unpaved roads, however unknown the end of this path may be. 

  
  


No longer can it be called The Wanderer.

  
  


After many, many posts have long since passed — A certain kind of haste enters the creature's body as it continues down the broken road, despite how woefully slow its pace remains. A rigid form that remains even as it steps around potholes and across crumbling gaps; leaning forward ever so slightly as if that made it reach the end faster. A strange brand of jittery that arises whenever it would take a sudden slash at the echoes around them; all before carrying on like nothing happened.

The empty creature was a strange and odd one, that is certain. 

But said creature soon stood motionless. 

A mere pace away from the edge of the cliff. 

  
  


A single step away from a dizzying, shell-shattering drop.

  
  


Statue still, it stared past and ahead, the wind whipping the frayed ends of its cloak without care.

The world past the crumbling edge was a dark, dreary one. Hazy dark blues and deep indigos washing out the rocks and earth it touches upon. Thick clouds blocked the sky above and no matter how harsh the gales blow, the air was stale and unmoving. A lifeless land, surrounded by steep, jagged cliff faces. But at the center of this crater, spots of light glowed forth from the fog.

It was a town, small and quaint, stone and shell clustered together with lights speckling the streets and pouring from windows. Dots of light leading up to it, snaking gently through the mist. Beyond the anomalous reprieve from the wastes was darkness, but drawing one’s eye closer to the horizon one could see the shimmering glints and shapes bleeding out from the background; a tall steep mountain with its peak hidden in the clouds. 

The creature looked on in an almost longing way, longing for the presence of another being after a lifetime of solitude. The lamplight hanging above, casting shadows onto the creature's shell, the effect deepening the void of its eyes — accentuating this sorrowful look. 

Is this what the creature was looking for, searching for?

A tiny, lonely town in a stale, dead land? An absent yet pitiful prize for such an aimless journey?

Perhaps it was looking for kin like itself, dead and empty shells like this settlement is no doubt filled with. 

Such a pitiful creature.

A small, insignificant, cursed creature.

A doomed creature.

A forgotten creature.

A  _ nameless  _ creature.

A... 

_ … … …  _

The creature stiffened and stilled as a particularly sharp squall brushed by it — as if something, someone out there were trying to push the pale thing away. But the creature only stood straighter, hollow head tilting downwards as if thinking. Listening. 

Then it leaped, without thought, off the cliff’s edge.

Falling into the gaping maw with no visible bottom.

Into the belly of a kingdom of fate yet undecided.

  
  


Many are drawn towards this tomb of pipe dreams and faded light. Many seeking their life here, only to find their ends in honey-sweet, silent lullabies. Many falling victim to their greed or the sharp bite of a blade. To those that manage to live, it a constant battle against death — begging and praying to whatever higher being would listen to make it through the endless night. 

Yes, many beings find their paths crossing and stories ending in this hallowed kingdom.

Some are pulled to it by lingering memories and second-guessed faces.

Others are called to it by crackling scarlet embers fueled by misery and crazed, reverent desire.

Few are drawn by sweet, venom-laced voices of the damned and wrathful. 

And for one...

Well. If the fading notes carried by the wind are willing to give up its secrets...

  
  


_ ... a song. _

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, feedback, suggestions, and thoughts are welcomed! (.w.)/
> 
> This is my first work in fandom and I love the game, so I hope I do this story justice!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading!


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